


We are ghosts

by Naysa



Series: Snowflakes [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Everyone is Dead, F/M, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Post-Apocalypse, Sort Of, The Long Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 06:46:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14014506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naysa/pseuds/Naysa
Summary: The moon holds the light, and the moon's this spinning globe shedding light upon the road (x)





	We are ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I don't know, I got suddenly inspired because Ghosts by James Vincent McMorrow is a beautiful, beautiful song and I just had to. I think it's kinda weird, I don't know, I just wrote it and didn't even read it once to check for mistakes or whatever, it was too spontaneous for that, and I don't know.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy it.

They forgot the taste of the sun. 

Darkness has resided for so long, there’s little they remember of the past. There’s little they want to remember anyway, when everything ended up tainted in blood and pain and sorrow, but sometimes they wake up thinking of the sun and the sudden want to remember.

She thinks of herself as no one. He knows her name and he makes sure to have it whispered in her ear as often as he can but it never lingers in her mind for long, she’s no one. She remembers his, though. She’s fond of the way her tongue curls at the end of it and the warmth that washes down her throat, right to her heart, whenever she calls for him.

Sometimes he thinks his name is the only word that to her holds meaning anymore. Little else does as of late. 

They hide from the never-ending cold deep in winter’s heart, under roots of blood leaves and blood tears, hoping those that walk in white won’t find them. The wolves stay with them. They leave sometimes, hunger and ache forcing them away, but they always come back. 

That’s another thing she remembers, he has noticed, the wolves. As much as she gave up, it was great what she gained. The sight, the hearing, the intuition. Whenever the wolves come back, she knows before he does and it never fails to make her smile, just like saying his name does. They come through pale roots in silent cadem, walking together as the only pack they have and his curls around her when she lays to sleep and hers stays awake as long as he does, watching with golden eyes how he stares and worries and hopes. 

Sometimes he feels they are wolves too and hunger and ache force them to the surface as well. 

They hunt with arrows made of the sacred branches of gods long forgotten and hopes that have been buried like old summer dreams. They hunt those creatures that still have beating hearts and fresh flesh and warm bones. Those creature that survive every never-ending night just to fall to their hunger. And they feed from them and they survive with blood tainted lips and it lets them know they are alive as it drips down their chins. The wolves share their hunt sometimes, so they share theirs too. They are not fond of the taste of intestines and bowels anyway, so it’s never hard to give those up for the wolves to feast on.

He feels like a wolf too when a different hunger rushes through his veins. This hunger aches differently, it’s sweeter and more ambitious and warmer, and it always starts with her. With her smooth skin or her rough lips or her sugarine voice awakening a dark cave under blood leaves and blood tears and death, death, death above them. She has the moon in her eyes, the only light he can see now, and he wants to swallow it, he wants to devour her and he does. He does, he does, he does, he loves how breathless his name sounds on her lips whenever she lays boneless in his arms.

“Jon?” she calls and it aches up and down his spine in a pain so sweet the way he inhales sounds a little too breathless, a little too strong. She’s warm and soft and willing and he catches her lips to drink her in. His tongue traces her jaw and he ends up with his lips against her ear.

“Arya,” he whispers to her as her chest rises fast and hard and strong against his, a fluttering heart pulsing delectably on her graceful neck and the way his teeth ache to sink in and mark her and own her reminds him it’s not just a feeling, it’s a truth. 

They are wolves surviving a winter night with blood drying on their lips. 

“Jon,” she calls again. More breathless, more needy, more lustful and he climbs on top of her to have her legs wrap around his hips, warm, warm, warm around him. “Jon, I love you.” 

_ That.  _ That holds meaning too, he knows, and right there, there’s the moon in her eyes. Blazing and bright and  _ there.  _ The taste lingers on his tongue as they lay together, as they come together, as they breathe together.

When they wake up hours later they think about the forgotten taste of the sun again but the thought makes them smile this time. 

The taste of the moon lingers down their throat, warm in their chest, in their belly. 

They forgot the taste of the sun but there’s no need for the sun at night.

**Author's Note:**

> Quick reminder: comments are free. 
> 
> That's it. 
> 
> I think I'm gonna go back to my non-existence now.
> 
> Bye.


End file.
